"Why? You know it may change any day now into the equinoctial gales. I think you might leave your old seaplane for once. I've never asked you before. Do!"
Denis, standing below her on the path, continued to smile provokingly and to shake his head. It amused him to see her stamp her foot, which she did punctually, with a thunderous frown.
"I think you're most unkind. It's not your duty, it's your pleasure you're thinking of. You like those miserable calculations, and that's why you won't come. I hate the seaplane!"
"There might be some point in your strictures," said Denis, teasing her, "if I happened to be workin' at the seaplane to-morrow."
"What are you going to do, then, if not that?"
"I'm dinin' Wandesforde in town."
"O-oh," said Dorothea, undecided between storm and sunshine. "Then I hate Mr. Wandesforde!" she concluded viciously.
"You hate so many things, don't you?"
Again she was almost ready to sulk like an offended baby; but no—out shone the sun, and the clouds fled away. "Well, I do," she owned, laughing back at him, "of course I do! So would anybody who wasn't a perfect frog. It's only cold-blooded people like you and Lettice who are tolerant. Besides, I love heaps of things to make up. I hate the seaplane and I hate Mr. Wandesforde, but I love the monoplane and I love you—"